Crossing the Borders

Remember the first one? The waterygreen, deer gliding through rushes.We were young as that valleyand now, miles later, I can tellyou these things aren’t common—I am being whittled hereby something more than mountains.I think lines on maps have nothingto do with this. The boundarieswe crossed have no names, althoughsome try Oregon, Idaho.Where we’ve been is a tattoowe can never find; the placeswe go, the pulsebeating closest to the ear.